


phantoMs

by 8ucky8arnes



Series: fragMents [10]
Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Hallucinations, Season 2 spoilers, Sleep Deprivation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8ucky8arnes/pseuds/8ucky8arnes
Summary: “Clarice, you alright?”She blinked, realizing just how long she’d been staring at nothing.Could they not hear him? See him?Or had she finally lost her mind?





	1. heart made of glass

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles from the song Lovely by Billie Eilish & Khalid

Clarice watched as Lorna and Marcos spoke, her stomach twisting violently as she sat curled up on the couch. She absently ran her fingers through Zingo’s fur as the dog whined and burrowed her head in her stomach to keep her shaking hands busy.

She wanted to be doing something: move, run, portal until her shoulders ached but it wouldn’t do any of them any good. It wouldn’t do _John_ any good. She couldn’t portal without an actual clear destination and it _killed_ her that she couldn’t help him.

If she’d just _been_ there, he wouldn’t have played the damn hero…

Now he was gone, taken, being _tortured_ …

_“This isn’t your fault, Clarice.”_

Her head snapped up as John’s voice echoed in her mind and she caught sight of him leaning back against the kitchen counter behind Marcos, wearing the same clothing she’d last seen him in and looking at her with such an infinite sadness in his expression, polar opposite of the anger he’d last directed at her…

_“There’s nothing you could’ve done.”_

“Clarice, you alright?”

She blinked, realizing just how long she’d been staring at nothing.

_Could they not hear him? See him?_

Or had she finally lost her mind?

No, she just hadn’t slept a wink since she found out John had been taken. Her brain was playing a cruel trick on her is all, reminding her that he wasn’t here. He wasn’t there because the Purifiers had taken him. They’d taken him and were _torturing_ him as they all sat here trying to make up a plan…

She turned to find that Lorna was the one who’d spoken and Clarice held the woman’s gaze, trying to decipher the emotions in those dark eyes and small part of her hoped she could feel every bit of what Clarice felt. The pain, the fear, the panic, the guilt, the anger, the _helplessness_ … “I’m fine.”

She pursed her lips at the sharpness of the words, but stepped back.

Marcos frowned, “Clarice…”

“Can you two just _leave me alone_?” The edge in her tone was brittle, her voice cracking on the last word. She turned away from them before anything more could be said, walking down the hall and into the bathroom and slamming the door.

_“Go easy on them…”_

“Just…stop talking.” She stumbled to the sink as her vision blurred and she tried to breathe. Yet it seemed no matter what she did, her lungs still burned and her throat tightened and she splashed cold water on her face, trying to pull herself out of this spiral.

_“You aren’t the only one who’s in pain.”_

Her head snapped up and she spun around, “You’re not here!”

And he wasn’t. No one was.

She was alone. Again.

She ran a hand through her hair with a hollow laugh, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “God, now I’m arguing with a ghost.” Clarice shook her head. _Maybe a shower would help…_

She locked the door before stripping and stepping into the shower. The water was scalding as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back into the spray, breathing in the steam and trying to just clear her mind of the nightmarish images her sleep-deprived brain seemed fit to conjure up but she couldn’t because with the mutant inhibitor collars out of the picture…

_What did it take to hold John? To prevent him from escaping?_

“Stop it, you…you can’t think like that. We’ll get him back…”

_How? It’s not like have a tracker. By the time you find him, you’ll be too late._ That small cynical part of her mind pulled down her hurriedly constructed walls like they were Jenga, breaking free of the box she’d shoved it in. She hadn’t let it have this much free reign since she’d run from Mama D and Carl…

_You left him, just like you left them. This outcome will be no different…_

“No…no it won’t.” She swallowed thickly, shutting off the water and tearing back the curtain as her vision blurred with tears. She blindly grabbed a towel, wrapping it around herself before walking unsteadily to the sink and wiping off the condensation from the mirror. She froze at the image looking back at her.

John smiled from the doorway, all dimples and white teeth in the dim lighting.

Clarice spun around to find him gone.

She turned back to the mirror, seeing only the shadows under bloodshot green eyes…

_“God, you are so beautiful.”_

With a choked scream, she lashed out, breaking the mirror.

Clarice didn’t register the pain or the blood as she stumbled back, collapsing hard onto her knees as she continued to sob. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked forward, trying to hold back the scream once again bubbling in her throat.

There was suddenly someone else there, cool hands squeezing her shoulders.

Emerald green hair flashed in her peripheral and Clarice lifted her gaze to Lorna’s, seeing that bone-deep grief in the woman’s eyes that no doubt mirrored her own. “All I can think about is what they’re doing to him. They’re torturing him and I can’t…I can’t help but think if I hadn’t left him then wouldn’t have…”

“You can’t think like that, Clarice. John made his own choice, like he always does.” There was a hard set to her jaw, a sharpness to her eyes reminiscent of the metal she wielded. “We’ll get him back. The Purifiers made their last mistake by taking him.”

She made no comment at the dark, threatening edge Lorna’s voice had taken, the pain slowly seeping through the fog and pulling her thoughts in another direction entirely as she looked down at her bleeding hand and she couldn’t help but be reminded of his self-inflicted bruises…

_“She’s right you know. You shouldn’t blame yourself…”_

Clarice couldn’t stop the shocked sound that left her mouth, head snapping to see that the image of John had appeared once again, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

_“I’m sorry.”_

 “Clarice?”

_“The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you.”_

She shook her head, “I keep seeing him, hearing his voice…God, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Lorna’s smile was humorless, “Join the club.”

“I didn’t mean…” Clarice frowned, “You’re not…”

“Sorry that was a…bad joke.” She took the bleeding hand in hers, drawing the metal trashcan and tweezers over with a flick of her wrist. “Relax, Clarice…I didn’t think you did.”

She winced as the larger shards were pulled out, “I’m surprised Marcos didn’t barge in here.”

“Oh, he wanted to, but I figured the fact that you were just out of the shower…”

Clarice almost laughed, “Probably would’ve thrown something at him.”

Lorna hummed, concentrating on the glass.

“So you aren’t going to ask why I…?”

“No. Your reasons are your own.”

“So if I said I saw John in the mirror and I punched it, what would you say then?”

She paused, “John loves you, Clarice and I know you love him. I also know that he isn’t the easiest man to love and _before_ you rip my head off…” she held up a hand at the furious look Clarice leveled her with, “he’s impulsive and stubborn and ironically blind and that was _after_ Evangeline found him _.”_

_“Lorna Dane, always straight to the point.”_

Clarice tried to ignore that this hallucination of John bore bruised and bloodied fists, focusing instead on Lorna, “So, what are you saying?”

“You feel guilty for the decision he made to hold back the Purifiers so Marcos and Fade could get away but you have nothing to be guilty about. He would’ve made that choice regardless of if you were there or not…”

_“I get that you hate the Inner Circle right now-”_

_“No, this has nothing to do with my feelings or Marcos or you! This fight is bigger than us!”_

Clarice looked down at her lap, chuckling bitterly, “Oh, I uh…I figured that out…”

Lorna frowned, but didn’t say any more she continued to work of the smaller glass shards.

She worried her lip, “Did he ever talk to you about before?”

“About as much as I did.”

Clarice backed off at the clipped tone as the last of the mirror was removed, grinding her teeth as Lorna poured hydrogen peroxide onto her hand and wrapped it in fresh bandages from the first aid kit. She didn’t argue with the women’s recommendation to get some sleep.

Maybe then, she wouldn’t be seeing John’s ghost everywhere.

“You know, Clarice…we’ll get John back.”

He stood behind Lorna, expression unreadable.

“I hope so.”

_Because I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t._


	2. my mind of stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to all my readers! Here's the second part, hope you enjoy!

“Gotcha.”

He groaned as his head was smashed down onto the hood.

The truck moved back moments later, John barely able to get his hands underneath him as his body collapsed onto the asphalt from the pain. Not even the months spent in the underground fights had felt like this, although that might’ve been because of the pills…

“How the hell is he still alive?”

“Does it really matter?”

John gritted his teeth a booted foot kicked out an arm, knocking him on his side.

“Stay down, mutie freak!”

Another boot, this one steel-toed, slammed into his ribs again and again and again…

“That’s enough.”

“But-”

Turner’s voice cut through the others, “This is a prominent leader of the Mutant Underground. We are going to take him back to base and see what else we can get out of him. If not, then we’ll get his associates: Marcos Diaz, Lorna Dane, and Clarice Fong. They’ll no doubt come for their friend.”

John chuckled, looking up at the man with a smile, “Good luck with that.”

Turner pulled out his gun and shot.

_BANG! BANG!_

He couldn’t stop from crying out as the bullets hit the ground inches from his ears, his vision exploding in a myriad of colored shards of light and John clamped his hands over his ears, body curling inward as his senses were overwhelmed.

“Put a hood on him now. He’s tracker, so this disorientation won’t last for long.”

The white was replaced with blackness, but the ringing remained as they lugged him into the bed of the truck. The clattering of metal and tires of gravel grated on his eardrums, the men’s voice sounded like they were coming from underwater.

He didn’t know how long or how far they drove until the truck stopped and the men pushed him out of the truck and onto the ground. His sight, while blocked, didn’t prevent him taking in his surroundings as his fingers curled into the earth: an old house with an underground cellar with no one but the Purifiers coming and going in the last few weeks.

His ears still rung and with the darkness cloaking his vision, the sharp scent of gunpowder and blood clinging to the men became impossible for him to ignore, overwhelming him with images of people running. Screams. Safeties clicking off. Shots. Bodies dropping.

John’s stomach lurched and he bit down his cheek to keep himself from making a noise, but that did nothing more than make the smell of iron more poignant and he was faintly aware of being dragged over the gravel and down into the cellar.

The chains they wrapped around his body were reminiscent of the ones Evangeline used all those years ago, heavy and thick and difficult to break. A dull throb of pain went through him as they applied pressure to his already battered ribcage, fingers yanking back his head to secure a collar around his throat.

The hood was pulled off and even the soft, dim lighting had his eyes squeezing shut.

He dropped his head as much as the collar allowed, not rising to any of the questions they asked him and John just barely bit back his cry of pain as the sledgehammer slammed into his stomach, his body straining against the thick chains. He’d barely sucked in a breath before another swung struck his side.

John closed his eyes, trying to draw himself inward away from pain, but then a gunshot sounded and he couldn’t stop the groan that was torn from his throat as the bullet pierced his skin, ears once again ringing.

He felt their eyes watching as the blood slowly trickled from his shoulder.

“So you _can_ bleed.”

John didn’t even lift his head, “Same as you.”

Jace fisted his hair and yanked it back, “We are not the same!”

There was so much pain in his eyes, so much _hate_.

“But we are. You’re not the only who’s lost someone Jace.”

The barrel of his gun was suddenly shoved under his chin. “Don’t you dare talk about Grace!”

John held his eyes unflinchingly. “You going to shoot me now?”

“No, you’d…” The man he tilted his head back as he chuckled, he slackened his grip and holstering the gun. He shook a finger at John, “You’d like that wouldn’t you, Mister Proudstar? You _want_ me to kill you so you can be a martyr in the Mutant Uprising.”

John leaned forward as much as he was able, sensing the men’s unease as the chains and wood groaned at the movement and as he lifted his head, his lips curling of their own accord, “I don’t know where you got your information, _Agent_ Turner, but you’re wrong. I’m no martyr and you don’t know a damn thing about me or what I want.”

The barb did exactly as John intended, the conversation ending as the man pulled out his gun and put a bullet in his chest, just over his sternum. The air was forced from his lungs, his heart stuttering from the pain. He gritted his teeth as it was followed with a crowbar, the men getting braver as each of the repeated strikes began to bruise his skin and aggravate the bullet wounds.

He groaned as something _cracked_ , most likely a rib.

John tried to stay aware, stay focused on his surroundings but that became harder with every bullet that pierced his skin. The pain he could endure well enough, but it was the blood loss that was starting to get to him. Everything was foggy, his vision blurring along the edges as the pool of red beneath him grew.

_“John?”_

_That voice…_ He tried to lift his head, but everything was so _heavy_. John peered through his lashes, looking in the direction it had come from to see a flash of those beautiful lavender locks and green eyes in startling clarity, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Clarice grinned.

_“Am I though?”_

“Who are you talking to?”

He glanced at Jace Turner, not surprised to find her gone when he looked again and for a moment, he wanted that delirium back if only so he could see her safe and whole and happy. To see her smile at him in way he wasn’t sure he still deserved after their last poisonous exchange and the accusations he’d made…

“Mister Proudstar, answer the question.”

Clarice appeared again, tilting her head to the side with a mischievous smile.

_“Go ahead, soldier. Tell the man what he wants to know.”_

He chuckled despite the current situation. _Leave it to Clarice._ “The memory of a better time.”

_“Now you’re just asking to get punched.”_

Jace frowned, “Who. Were. You. Talking. To?”

John didn’t respond.

“Things will go a lot smoother if you answer my question.”

He smiled, “I was never one for the easy way.”

The punch finally sent him tipping over the edge and into unconsciousness.

_“You know, you didn’t have to provoke him.”_

_They were back in the bedroom of their apartment and John looked down at the woman laying across his chest, smiling as his fingers lightly ran down the ridges of her spine. “You told me to tell him what I saw. So I did.”_

_She rested her chin on her folded up arm, “You just wanted to see me, didn’t you?”_

_He laughed, “You know me so well.”_

_Clarice’s brows furrowed, “I love you, but you’re an idiot.”_

_John frowned._

_“If you’re doing this to serve penance or…redeem yourself then-”_

_He pushed himself up, “That is not what this is and you know it.”_

_“Do I?” Her voice cracked as she sat up, tucking the sheets under her arms. “You’ve been trying to prove to yourself…to everyone, that you’re still a capable leader. You shoved your anger and your grief and your pain so far down, compartmentalized and pushed ahead-”_

_“Clarice…”_

_“You left all of us behind John. You left me behind.”_

_He reached out, cupping her jaw in his hand, “I never meant to.”_

_She leaned into his touch, kissing his palm, “Then come back to us, John…come back to me.”_

The cold water snapped him out of the dream, John gasping at the shock. The two broken ribs on his right side sent sharp, stabbing reminders of their presence and he groaned as fingers tangled in his hair and yanked.

“Back with us, Mister Proudstar?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So did your little nap bring you some clarity?”

“You could say that.”

Jace seemed wary.

John leaned back against the chair, forcing himself not react as the movement shifted bullets and bone. He shoved the pain back like he’d been trained to, focusing instead on the sound of boots on the wooden floor above them, the dust particles catching the sunlight…

A faint whistle drew his attention

_“Hey there, soldier...”_

Clarice leaned back against the far wall, those brilliant eyes luminous and glittering with laughter and light and _love_. She smiled, pushing herself off the wall and walked towards the wooden stairs leading up, and looked over her shoulder with a knowing smile.

_“You come back to me, you hear?”_

He tested the chains, feeling some the links give a little under the strain and he heard some faint splintering coming from the right armrest. From the lack of change to Jace’s expression, it was safe to assume he hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

_Yes, Ma’am._

He smiled as Clarice walked up the stairs and faded like a mirage.

_I’ll see you soon._

**Author's Note:**

> The second part should be up tomorrow!


End file.
